


Self Portrait

by Random_Inked_Thoughts



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, really angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 17:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21103412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Inked_Thoughts/pseuds/Random_Inked_Thoughts
Summary: Dan had always hated himself, for as long as he could remember.Hating himself was easy enough. Nothing had ever been good enough, or impressive enough for any kind of positive attention to be directed at him. Living through years of that had made one fact painfully clear- he wasn’t special. The self hatred only boosted this fact inside of his head, amplifying it to the point where it was all he could hear, a soft ringing in his ears.





	Self Portrait

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this work a long time ago, when I was going through some stuff. I didn't want to post it then, but now is a much better time for me, so I hope that you all find some meaning or emotion conveyed through it. It's a bit messy, but I did my best to clean some of the wording up. 
> 
> HUGE DISCLAIMER, PLEASE READ: none of what I write here is a reflection on how I view these people. Some of the more harmful ideas are also presented as "normal" or "right" during the story. I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS. Please don't think that it's right to do anything in this fic, that's just me trying to write from a biased POV.

Dan had always hated himself, for as long as he could remember.

Hating himself was easy enough. Nothing had ever been good enough, or impressive enough for any kind of positive attention to be directed at him. Living through years of that had made one fact painfully clear-  _ he wasn’t special.  _ The self hatred only boosted this fact inside of his head, amplifying it to the point where it was all he could hear, a soft ringing in his ears. 

So he tried out self harm, toyed with the idea of it as a cat would with a ball, batting it around the dusty corners of his blank mind.  _ Razors are stereotypical, but they get the job done.  _ This was his reasoning. When it came down to it, however, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t even put the razor where it belonged. He was too cowardly. 

This was for the best. Scars would earn him sympathy and disgust, in the long run. It had to be something no one would even spare a second glance. Then he had an idea. People never looked at feet. Phil didn’t know,  _ couldn’t know. _

  
So he tore at places people wouldn’t see. Little things, ripping pieces of his skin methodically away, with a sick kind of fascination. It became easy almost, to walk around, feeling the fresh spikes of soft pain through his shoe, allowing the tender, newly exposed flesh to peek out and rub against the rough material of his sock. It became the new normal, and it was enough, for now. 

He couldn’t stop it. Even though it seemed nontraditional, intentional harm was self harm. If it got him through the day, he would return again the next night to do it again, to scrape back the skin. Sometimes, if he wasn’t careful, he would bleed. He didn’t want to do that, at the end of the day. He just craved the pain. It was as scary as it was fascinating. 

Soon after came the issues with self image. His hair was too curly, too unruly. He hated the way it laid, never flat and complacent, much like Phil’s hair. Of course his flatmate was just that lucky. So he took a straightener to it, and if he burned his fingers along the way, oh well. If only he could straighten his problems out as easily as his hair. 

His parents didn’t care, if he happened to bring it up at a visit. “Everyone worries about self image. You’re perfectly normal.” 

He stopped visiting.

He lived a decent life, and felt there was no reason for these feelings. He was living with the boy of his literal dreams, and while their relationship wasn’t nearly as romantic as it was platonic, it was clear that Phil valued him above all others. This somehow failed to comfort him late at night as he felt himself choke up over stupid things. His life was in shambles all around him, and yet everything was so perfect all at once. Dan hated it, almost as much as he hated himself. 

The next time he looked in the mirror with his shirt off, he was disgusted by what he saw. Slowly, he could feel his warm hands reach down and cup his small stomach, feeling bile rise in his throat.  _ I’m disgusting.  _   
  
It was like a switch. He hated his weight. Suddenly, he couldn’t go anywhere without sucking in his stomach. Certain shirts lay unused in his drawer simply because he was too ashamed to be seen with them. It was like he could feel every calorie that he put into his body. It felt disgusting. 

Despite this, he couldn’t stop eating. It was painful, almost, feeling himself raise more and more food into his mouth, feeling as if he was going to puke the entire time. He couldn’t help it. The stress made him turn to junk foods, and the self hatred only got stronger with each passing bite. 

Pasta, bread, gummies, chocolate, all of these felt like comfort in his time of self discovery. So he learned to improvise. 

He just wouldn’t eat if he didn’t have to. Whenever he felt the beginnings of gnawing hunger within his stomach, he simply forced down the desire to eat. If he could escape mealtimes, he would simply be fine. He needed to make room for the foods that he could feel like he could stomach. 

The longer he did this, skipping meals for the first half of the day and shoving chocolate down his throat like it was his lifeline the second half of the day, or vice versa, the less the uncomfortable sensation of his stomach digesting itself bothered him. He began to enjoy it, even. 

Late at night, Dan would slowly run his fingers over his stomach bulge, the hatred coiling like a fiery snake, deep in his stomach. It was warm, the extra fat. He could feel his body physically destroying itself all through the day, and yet it still sat there, mocking him even. He couldn’t understand why he wasn't losing weight. In fact, according to the scale he couldn’t seem to stop weighing himself on, he wasn’t losing any weight, he was gaining it. 

But if he added back in the other calories, he would have to leave behind all of the foods his stress eating cried out for. And he couldn’t be seen in public as overweight, he had to be skinny, had to be perfect. Or, at least, whatever twisted version of perfect that he thought existed, unattainable.

Desperate, he began to eat less during dinners, during outings with Phil. He tried in vain to peel away as many calories from his diet as he could. He was still peeling his skin as well, the burn of the raw wounds comforting.

Nothing was working, and Dan could feel himself begin to get scared, for the first time in a while. The emotion was a shock, since, even with him being able to put on a good act for the fans, and more importantly, for Phil, he hadn’t felt a serious high or low in years, not since the day Phil had asked him to be his. 

He was just empty, unsatisfied. When the shock and fear began to fill that hole, he almost welcomed the foreign feeling. 

Then it hurt. Crippling, gut wrenching hurt. The kind of hurt that made him want to cry for help, the kind of hurt that made him wish Phil would push just a little bit further whenever he asked Dan what was wrong.

Sometimes, when they kissed, Phil would reach out gently, almost as if he was afraid of breaking Dan, and he would gently place his hands around Dan’s waist. He could feel himself shiver at the contact, even as they traced patterns into his hip that only Phil could seem to see. This was the only time he would let anyone touch his stomach.

_ Fat. Ugly. Stupid.  _

Intrusive thoughts. None of the words were particularly descriptive, all easily found in the vocabulary of a six year old. However, with each one, it was yet another blow to his already tender heart, heavy with self hatred.

He could feel the love behind Phil’s eyes, he could feel the compassion. It almost hurt him more. He regretted waiting so long to tell him.

_ “Therapy? I don’t need anything! I’m fine!”  _

He regretted saying anything at all even more.

_ “Dan, it’s okay, you don’t have to pretend. It could help you.” Phil sounded almost desperate, his palms up in an attempt to pacify his boyfriend. “This isn’t healthy!” _

_ “No, I’m perfectly normal. Fuck, I’m not one of those kinds of people, I don’t want to be one of those kind of people! It’s fine, I’m eating, okay?”  _

_ “Dan… please…” Phil’s shoulders slumped, defeated.  _

Phil didn’t understand. No one understood. Heck, he didn’t even understand himself. Again, this did nothing to quiet his fast paced heart. 

_ Phil doesn’t want damaged goods. No one wants damaged goods. _

The days went on, and Dan went hungry. He turned to more food and he starved himself whenever Phil wasn’t looking. 

_ “Hey, want me to grab you some cereal too before I throw on the anime?” A sleepy Phil blinked his eyes rapidly in an attempt to wake himself up. _

_ “No, I’m okay, I’ve already eaten.” Dan’s stomach twisted further around itself, crying out silently. He ignored it.  _

Nobody understood. Nobody could sense the pain rippling just beneath his skin. He felt alone and yet so surrounded all at once. No one and everyone could touch him. He was too clingy, he was too distant. The thoughts were too much and not enough. 

And it was all in his head. 

So slowly, in a last ditch attempt to do something, anything, he put the pen to the paper and began to write:

_ Dan had always hated himself, for as long as he could remember... _


End file.
